HEMEMORYOFfi 


LIBRARY 


Cal'fornlA 
r~1ne 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 


-Sastoa.  Small,  JfaynantA  Cum/tany.  1S89. 


• 

THE 
MEMORY  OF  LINCOLN 

Poems   Selected 

With   an    Introduction  by 

M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe 


Boston 

Small    Maynard   &  Company 
1899 


Copyright  1899 
By  Small,  Maynard  £ff   Company 


MS  7,? 

a  o  q 


Rockwell  &T   Churchill  Press 
Boston,    U.S.A. 


Grateful  acknowledgment  is  due  to  Mr.  John  James 
Piatt,  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Stoddard,  Mr.  Edmund 
Clarence  Stedman,  Mr.  Richard  Watson  Gilder,  Dr. 
S.  Weir  Mitchell,  Mr.  Maurice  Thompson,  Messrs. 
Houghton,  Mijflin,  13  Co.,  Messrs.  Charles  Scribner's 
Sons,  Mr.  George  Boker  and  The  J.  B.  Lippincott  Co., 
Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers,  and  The  Century  Co.,  for 
permission  to  reprint  poems  written  or  controlled  through 
copyright  by  them.  The  publishers  of  Walt  Whitman 
are  the  publishers  of  the  present  volume,  for  which, 
moreover,  the  poem  by  Mr.  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  was 
written.  Of  Mr.  R.  H.  Stoddarfs  sonnet,  "  Abraham 
Lincoln"  the  last  two  lines  have  been  changed  by  the 
author  for  the  republication  of  the  poem  in  this  place. 
The  frontispiece  of  the  volume  is  used  through  the 
courtesy  of  Messrs.  A.  W.  Elson  &  Co.,  by  whom  the 
original  picture  is  copyrighted. 

The  Editor  would  especially  record  his  obligation  to 
the  New  York  State  Library  School  at  Albany  for 
the  use  of  an  unpublished  bibliography  of  poems  relat- 
ing to  Lincoln — the  work  of  Miss  Mary  L.  Sutliff. 
Though  the  selections  presented  here  are  few,  it  is 
believed  that  by  the  aid  of  this  bibliography  the  broad 
field  from  which  they  are  taken  has  been  entirely  sur- 
veyed. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

ix  INTRODUCTION:    The  Poetic  Memory  of  Lincoln 

The  Editor 

3  SONNET  IN  1862  John  James  Piatt 

4  From  the   ODE  RECITED  AT  THE  HARVARD   COMMEMO- 

RATION James  Russell  Lowell 

7     O  CAPTAIN  !     MY  CAPTAIN  Walt  Whitman 

9     From  AN  HORATIAN  ODE  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 

12  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN:  Foully  Assassinated,  April  19,  1865 

Tom  Taylor 

1 6  From  OUR  HEROIC  THEMES  George  Henry  Boker 

1 8    From  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  Henry  Howard  Brownell 

35  THE  MARTYR  Herman  Melville 

37   WHEN  LILACS  LAST  IN  THE  DOORYARD  BLOOM'D 

Walt  Whitman 
50  From  the  GETTYSBURG  ODE  Bayard  Taylor 

5  2  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  Richard  Henry  Stoddard 
53  THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP        John  Greenleaf  Whittier 
55  THE  HAND  OF  LINCOLN          Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 

58  ON  THE  LIFE— MASK  OF  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

59  To  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

Richard  Watson  Gilder 

60  LINCOLN  S.  Weir  Mitchell 

6 1  From  LINCOLN'S  GRAVE  Maurice  Thompson 
65   LINCOLN                                            Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 

[vii] 


THE   MEMORY   OF  LINCOLN 

THE     POETIC    MEMORY    OF    ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN. 

The  memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln  is  preserved 
through  the  record  of  the  impressions  he  made  upon 
many  minds  representing  many  phases  of  thought  and 
action  in  war  and  peace.  Since  this  record  deals  in 
general  with  outward  acts,  it  is  well  worth  while  to 
supplement  it  by  a  consideration  of  inward  impulses. 
The  outward  act  is  but  the  flowering  of  a  seed  which 
lies  within  the  soul.  To  this  interior  ground  the  poets 
guide  our  eyes,  and  what  they  reveal  to  us  there 
explains  everything.  It  is  needed  but  to  know  truly 
the  heart  of  a  man  in  order  to  be  sure  of  the  words 
he  will  speak  and  the  deeds  he  will  perform  when  the 
occasion  is  ripe  for  speech  and  action. 

In  the  fulness  of  poetic  record  providing  such 
knowledge  as  this,  Lincoln  stands  practically  alone. 
Certainly  his  treatment  at  poetic  hands  is  without 
parallel  in  American  history.  We  turn  to  Washing- 
ton for  such  a  parallel,  and,  for  various  reasons,  it  does 
not  exist.  If  it  is  not  to  be  found  there,  where  else 
shall  we  look  ?  It  is  not  enough  to  say  that  Lincoln's 
time  was  preeminently  the  time  of  song,  and  that  a 
thousand  singers  were  ready  at  his  death  either  to 
break  their  silence  or  to  keep  it  unbroken.  Nor  can 
it  be  declared  without  reserve  that  the  cause  for  which 
he  died  rendered  him  at  the  time  necessarily  "  the  sub- 

[ix] 


THE    MEMORY   OF   LINCOLN 

ject  of  all  verse."  An  overflowing  volume  of  "  Poeti- 
cal Tributes  to  the  Memory  of  Abraham  Lincoln," 
published  in  1865,  preserves  the  sorrowing  chorus  of 
the  day.  Its  mightily  preponderating  note  had  the 
high  virtue  of  sincerity,  but  lacked  many  others.  Yet 
in  that  volume,  and  in  the  other  writings  which  sprang 
less  directly  from  the  "  sad  occasion  dear  "  of  Lincoln's 
death,  certain  notes  of  true  poetic  quality  are  distin- 
guishable. It  is  with  these,  more  particularly  when 
they  do  not  express  the  immediate  grief  or  the  instinct 
to  avenge  the  blackest  of  murders,  but  help  us  to  see 
the  true  Lincoln,  and  to  realize  what  his  life  has  vari- 
ously meant  to  men  whose  chief  care  is  for  the  inmost 
things, —  it  is  with  these  that  our  present  concern  lies. 
There  is  no  portion  of  Lowell's  "  Ode  Recited  at 
the  Harvard  Commemoration,"  in  the  summer  of 
1865,  more  justly  familiar  than  the  lines  referring  to 
Lincoln.  These  were  not  in  the  Ode  as  Lowell 
recited  it,  but  were  added  immediately  afterwards.  It 
was  inevitable  that  he  should  wish  to  leave  in  the 
finished  poem  some  clear  record  of  his  feeling  towards 
the  central  human  figure  of  the  events  which  called 
to  the  sons  of  Harvard  to  give  their  lives  for  their 
country.  It  was  hardly  less  to  be  expected  that,  in 
celebrating  the  heroic  gift  in  song,  Lowell  should 
look  upon  Lincoln  just  as  he  did.  As  one  versed 
equally  in  the  lore  of  books  and  of  character  peculiar 
to  his  native  land,  it  was  manifestly  for  him  to  com- 

M 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

pare  and  analyze,  and  as  a  total  result  of  the  process, 
to  see  and  draw  a  poet's  picture  of  the  man  in  whom 
"  nothing  of  Europe  "  might  be  found,  —  unless  as  in 
"  one  of  Plutarch's  men,"  — but  instead  a  creature 
made  of  the 

"  .     .      .     sweet  clay  from  the  breast 
Of  the  unexhausted  West." 

The  Lincoln  of  Lowell's  far-flung  vision  was  ulti- 
mately the  "  new  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first 
American."  And  to  somewhat  the  same  purposes  of 
acute  analysis  and  definition  Mr.  R.  H.  Stoddard, 
in  the  lines  from  his  noble  "  Horatian  Ode,"  which 
have  to  do  especially  with  Lincoln's  character,  has  de- 
voted the  rarely  combined  powers  of  poet  and  critic. 
It  is,  of  course,  for  quite  another  view  of  Lincoln 
that  we  look  to  Walt  Whitman.  In  the  burning 
lines,  "  O  Captain  !  My  Captain  !  "  which  many 
readers  consider  Whitman's  highest  achievement,  be- 
cause, they  would  say,  it  is  "  least  like  him,"  the 
poet  sings  his  loyalty  and  grief  from  the  full  heart  and 
for  the  complete  utterance  of  those  who  in  one  way 
and  another  fought  by  Lincoln's  side.  Whitman's 
own  service  in  the  hospitals  brought  home  to  him 
especially  the  significance  of  death  by  war.  There- 
fore in  the  longer  threnody  for  Lincoln,  "  When 
Lilacs  Last  in  the  Door- Yard  Bloom'd,"  is  it  not  sur- 
prising (it  would  be  more  surprising  if  Whitman  were 
[xi] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

not  the  singer)  that  Lincoln  himself  is  less  the  theme 
than  "  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowledge 
of  death."  But  Lincoln  enters  into  the  highly  im- 
agined chant  more  than  as  the  mere  cause  for  its 
being.  Whitman,  looking  out  upon  "  the  large  un- 
conscious scenery  "  of  his  land,  translates  the  meaning 
of  Lincoln's  name  for  him  into  terms  of  the  democ- 
racy he  is  never  weary  of  singing ;  and  to  adorn  the 
chamber-walls  of"  the  burial  house  of  him  "  he  loved, 
calls  up 

"  Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes," 

and  scenes  from  "  the  city  at  hand,"  from  the  crowded 
"  life  and  the  workshops,"  and  from  the  whole 
"  varied  and  ample  land."  Whitman  thus  speaks 
for  many  when  he  draws  from  the  thought  of  Lincoln 
a  multitude  of  images  inherently  American ;  and 
tenderly  defining  his  "  captain "  as  "  the  sweetest, 
wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands,"  he  makes  his 
own  offering  of  one  of  the  single  phrases  by  which  it 
is  easiest  to  remember  Lincoln  as  he  was. 

While  Whitman's  fame  increases,  that  of  another 
true  singer  of  Lincoln  becomes  unhappily  less.  This 
is  Henry  Howard  Brownell,  the  poet  whom  Farragut 
called  to  serve  on  his  staff  before  the  battle  of  Mobile 
Bay,  which  thus  secured  the  enduring  poetic  memorial 
of  "The  Bay  Fight."  Mr.  Aldrich's  sonnet  in 
Brownell's  praise  describes  him  as  one  who 
[xii] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

" .     .     .     knew  books,  and  hearts  of  men, 
Cities  and  camps,  and  war's  immortal  woe." 

It  is  therefore  not  the  unexpected  which  happens  when 
we  find  in  Brownell's  long  and  not  too  highly  polished 
poem,  "Abraham  Lincoln,"  written  in  the  summer 
of  1865,  perhaps  the  truest  blending  of  the  civic  and 
the  martial  aspects  of  Lincoln's  character.  When 
the  mere  President  was  his  theme,  Brownell,  like 
Lowell  and  Mr.  Stoddard,  showed  how  well  he  knew 
the  "  hearts  of  men,"  at  least  the  heart  of  the  one  man 
who  was  dearest  to  the  nation.  But  the  President, 
to  him  who  saw  actual  service  in  the  Civil  War,  was  in 
a  true  sense  also  "  Commander-in-Chief  of  the  Army 
and  Navy  of  the  United  States ; "  and  Brownell, 
meditating  on  the  dead  leader,  turned  his  thought 
back  to  the  "  Hartford "  with  its  "  long  decks  all 
slaughter-sprent,"  and  thence  naturally  upward  to  the 
vision  of  the  "  lost  battalions"  drawn  up  in  a  celestial 
review,  —  "  a  grander  Review  than  Grant's,"  —  pass- 
ing "in  mighty  square  and  column"  before  the 
ascended  President.  This  is  indeed  one  of  the  true 
poetic  visions  toward  which  few  pages  of  American 
poetry  have  more  directly  opened  the  windows  of  the 
soul. 

The  statelier  threnodies  for  Lincoln  must  not  lead 
us  to  forget  the  very  different  memorial  written  by 
Tom  Taylor  for  Punch.     There  is  a  value  all  its  own 
[xiii] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

in  this  humble,  generous  recantation  of  the  scoffer 
who  acknowledges  that  all  scoffing  has  been  due  to 
the  imperfect  vision  which  could  not  know  at  once  what 
truth  and  strength  were  hid  beneath  a  forbidding  sur- 
face; and  we  cannot  resent  this  "glittering  chaplet 
brought  from  other  lands  "  as  Alice  Gary  did  when 
she  wrote : 

"  What  need  hath  he  now  of  a  tardy  crown, 

His  name  from  mocking  jest  and  sneer  to  save  ? 

When  every  ploughman  turns  his  furrow  down 
As  soft  as  though  it  fell  upon  his  grave." 

For  our  generation  the  beauty  of  the  last  two  of 
these  lines,  rather  than  the  spirit  of  the  first  two,  is  the 
memorable  thing.  For  us,  indeed,  there  is  perhaps 
even  a  greater  present,  if  less  poetic,  interest  in  the 
lines  which  Whittier,  soon  after  the  appearance  of 
Xom  Taylor's  verses,  took  occasion  to  copy  from  his 
poem  "To  Englishmen"  (1862),  and  sent  with  this 
brief  letter,  printed  in  the  "  New  York  Times,"  of 
June  5,  1865,10  a  Canadian  correspondent: 

AMESBURY,  MASS.,  May  22,  1865. 
MY  DEAR  SIR  : 

The  tears  which  both  nations  are  shedding  over  the 
grave  of  our  beloved  President  are  washing  out  all 
bitter  memories  of  misconception  and  estrangement 
between  them.     So  good  comes  of  evil, 
[xiv] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

O  Englishmen  !  in  hope  and  creed, 

In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers ; 
We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede, 
And  Shakespeare's  fame  and  Cromwell's  deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

Thicker  than  water  in  one  rill, 
Through  centuries  of  story, 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
We  share  with  you  the  good  and  ill, 
The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Thine  truly, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 

If  the  wish  to  share  in  the  established  glory  of 
Lincoln  came  promptly  from  our  kinsmen  across  the 
seas,  it  has  come  no  less  positively,  though  of  course 
more  slowly,  from  our  own  countrymen  of  the  South. 
The  poem  read  by  Mr.  Maurice  Thompson  before 
the  Harvard  Phi  Beta  Kappa  in  1893  sPea^s  elo- 
quently for  the  great  change  wrought  by  time ;  for 
here  the  voice  of  one  who  in  his  own  person  fought 
against  the  Northern  cause  is  uplifted  in  whole-souled 
praise  of  Lincoln's  greatness.  In  the  same  year  of 
1893  tne  Poems  f°r  the  opening  of  the  World's 
Columbian  Exposition  and  for  the  unveiling  of  a 
Lincoln  statue  in  Edinburgh  to  the  memory  of  Scot- 

[XV] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

tish-American  soldiers  gave  token  of  the  living  pres- 
ence of  Lincoln's  spirit  in  regions  so  truly  far  apart  as 
Illinois  and  Scotland.  Such  words  about  him  as  those 
which  Mr.  Paul  Laurence  Dunbar  contributes  to  this 
volume  were  sure  to  come  in  time  from  one  of  Mr. 
Dunbar's  race.  The  various  separated  songs,  uttering 
each  its  particular  note  of  response  to  Lincoln's  appeal 
to  the  soul  of  man,  might  be  counted  to  an  amazing 
number.  As  if  possibly  to  remind  us  that  the  least 
conventional  of  men  had  within  him  that  symmetry  of 
nature  which  is  best  interpreted  by  the  most  austere 
of  poetical  forms,  these  poems  are  cast  with  notable 
frequency  in  the  mould  of  the  sonnet.  Through  all 
the  poems  of  which  Mr.  Stedman's  "  The  Hand  of 
Lincoln "  and  the  sonnets  of  Dr.  Mitchell  and  Mr. 
Gilder  may  be  taken  as  types,  the  calmer  American 
judgment  of  a  long  period  of  peace  finds  clear  expres- 
sion, and  thus  there  is  still  a  constant  pledge  that  the 
cherishing  of  Lincoln's  memory  has  become  indeed  a 
portion  of  our  national  heritage. 

Fortunately  we  may  not  be  expected  to  let  slip 
even  a  little  of  our  knowledge  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 
But  if  upon  the  record  by  which  he  lives  disaster 
could  be  conceived  to  fall  with  discriminating  hand, 
destroying  the  libraries  of  prose,  and  leaving  un- 
touched the  small  body  of  the  best  verse  which  poets 
have  made  for  his  praise,  our  words  might  well  be, 
"  Tho'  much  is  taken,  much  abides."  There  would 
[xvi] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

still  be  left  to  us  the  spiritual  outlines  for  a  great 
portrait.  These  lines  have  been  drawn  by  many 
hands,  guided  by  eyes  accustomed  to  look  for  widely 
varying  symbols  of  character.  Yet  the  complete 
personality  which  they  enable  us  to  reconstruct  has 
none  other  than  the  unity,  blending  within  itself  all 
human  complexities  of  tenderness  and  strength,  of  the 
very  Lincoln  we  have  come  to  know  through  the 
cumulative  testimony  of  a  host  of  his  fellow-men. 

Bristol,  Rhode  Island, 
January,  1899. 


[xvii] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 


JOHN    JAMES    PI  ATT 

SONNET    IN     1862 

Stern  be  the  Pilot  in  the  dreadful  hour 
When  a  great  nation,  like  a  ship  at  sea 
With  the  wroth  breakers  whitening  at  her  lee, 

Feels  her  last  shudder  if  her  Helmsman  cower ; 

A  godlike  manhood  be  his  mighty  dower ! 
Such  and  so  gifted,  Lincoln,  may'st  thou  be 
With  thy  high  wisdom's  low  simplicity 

And  awful  tenderness  of  voted  power : 

From  our  hot  records  then  thy  name  shall  stand 
On  Time's  calm  ledger  out  of  passionate  days 

With  the  pure  debt  of  gratitude  begun, 
And  only  paid  in  never-ending  praise  — 

One  of  the  many  of  a  mighty  Land, 

Made  by  God's  providence  the  Anointed  One. 

John  James  Piatt 
1862 


[3] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

From   the 

ODE    RECITED    AT   THE    HARVARD 
COMMEMORATION 

Life  may  be  given  in  many  ways, 
And  loyalty  to  Truth  be  sealed 
As  bravely  in  the  closet  as  the  field, 
So  bountiful  is  Fate  ; 
But  then  to  stand  beside  her, 
When  craven  churls  deride  her, 
To  front  a  lie  in  arms  and  not  to  yield, 
This  shows,  methinks,  God's  plan 
And  measure  of  a  stalwart  man, 
Limbed  like  the  old  heroic  breeds, 
Who  stand  self-poised  on  manhood's  solid  earth, 
Not  forced  to  frame  excuses  for  his  birth, 
Fed  from  within  with  all  the  strength  he  needs. 

Such  was  he,  our  Martyr-Chief 

Whom  late  the  Nation  he  had  led, 

With  ashes  on  her  head, 
Wept  with  the  passion  of  an  angry  grief : 
Forgive  me,  if  from  present  things  I  turn 
To  speak  what  in  my  heart  will  beat  and  burn, 
And  hang  my  wreath  on  his  world-honored  urn. 

Nature,  they  say,  doth  dote, 

And  cannot  make  a  man 

Save  on  some  worn-out  plan, 

[4] 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

Repeating  us  by  rote  : 
For  him  her  Old  World  moulds  aside  she  threw, 

And,  choosing  sweet  clay  from  the  breast 

Of  the  unexhausted  West, 
With  stuff  untainted  shaped  a  hero  new, 
Wise,  steadfast  in  the  strength  of  God,  and  true. 

How  beautiful  to  see 

Once  more  a  shepherd  of  mankind  indeed, 
Who  loved  his  charge,  but  never  loved  to  lead ; 
One  whose  meek  flock  the  people  joyed  to  be, 

Not  lured  by  any  cheat  of  birth, 

But  by  his  clear-grained  human  worth, 
And  brave  old  wisdom  of  sincerity  ! 

They  knew  that  outward  grace  is  dust ; 

They  could  not  choose  but  trust 
In  that  sure-footed  mind's  unfaltering  skill, 

And  supple-tempered  will 
That  bent  like  perfect  steel  to  spring  again  and  thrust. 

His  was  no  lonely  mountain-peak  of  mind, 

Thrusting  to  thin  air  o'er  our  cloudy  bars, 

A  sea-mark  now,  now  lost  in  vapors  blind  ; 

Broad  prairie  rather,  genial,  level-lined, 

Fruitful  and  friendly  for  all  human  kind, 
Yet  also  nigh  to  heaven  and  loved  of  loftiest  stars. 

Nothing  of  Europe  here, 
Or,  then,  of  Europe  fronting  mornward  still, 

Ere  any  names  of  Serf  and  Peer 

Could  Nature's  equal  scheme  deface 

[5] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

And  thwart  her  genial  will ; 
Here  was  a  type  of  the  true  elder  race, 
And  one  of  Plutarch's  men  taiked  with  us  face  to  face. 

I  praise  him  not ;  it  were  too  late ; 
And  some  innative  weakness  there  must  be 
In  him  who  condescends  to  victory 
Such  as  the  Present  gives,  and  cannot  wait, 
Safe  in  himself  as  in  a  fate. 
So  always  firmly  he : 
He  knew  to  bide  his  time, 
And  can  his  fame  abide, 
Still  patient  in  his  simple  faith  sublime, 

Till  the  wise  years  decide. 
Great  captains,  with  their  guns  and  drums, 
Disturb  our  judgment  for  the  hour, 

But  at  last  silence  comes ; 

These  all  are  gone,  and,  standing  like  a  tower, 
Our  children  shall  behold  his  fame. 

The  kindly-earnest,  brave,  foreseeing  man, 
Sagacious,  patient,  dreading  praise,  not  blame, 
New  birth  of  our  new  soil,  the  first  American. 

James   Russell  Lowell 
1865 

By  special  permission  of 

Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


WALT    WHITMAN 

O    CAPTAIN!    MY    CAPTAIN 

O  Captain  !   my  Captain  !  our  fearful  trip  is  done, 
The    ship    has    weather'd   every   rack,   the   prize  we 

sought  is  won, 
The    port   is   near,  the  bells   I   hear,   the    people  all 

exulting, 

While  follow  eyes  the  steady  keel,  the  vessel  grim  and 
daring ; 

But  O  heart !  heart !  heart ! 
O  the  bleeding  drops  of  red, 

Where  on  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen  cold  and  dead. 

O  Captain  !   my  Captain !  rise  up  and  hear  the  bells  ; 
Rise    up  —  for  you  the  flag  is  flung — for  you  the 

bugle  trills, 
For  you  bouquets  and  ribbon'd  wreaths  —  for  you  the 

shores  a-crowding, 

For  you  they  call,  the  swaying  mass,  their  eager  faces 
turning  -, 

Here  Captain  !  dear  father ! 
This  arm  beneath  your  head ! 

It  is  some  dream  that  on  the  deck, 
You've  fallen  cold  and  dead. 

My   Captain  does  not  answer,  his  lips  are  pale  and 
still, 

[7] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

My  father  does  not  feel  my  arm,  he  has  no  pulse  nor 

will, 
The  ship  is  anchor'd  safe  and  sound,  its  voyage  closed 

and  done, 

From  fearful  trip  the  victor  ship  comes  in  with  object 
won; 

Exult  O  shores,  and  ring  O  bells ! 
But  I  with  mournful  tread, 

Walk  the  deck  my  Captain  lies, 
Fallen,  cold  and  dead. 

Walt  Whitman 
1865 


[8] 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 

From 
AN    HORATIAN   ODE 

Cool  should  be,  of  balanced  powers, 

The  ruler  of  a  race  like  ours, 

Impatient,  headstrong,  wild, — 
The  man  to  guide  the  child  ! 

And  this  he  was,  who  most  unfit 
(So  hard  the  sense  of  God  to  hit!) 

Did  seem  to  fill  his  place. 

With  such  a  homely  face, — 

Such  rustic  manners,  —  speech  uncouth,  — 
(That  somehow  blundered  out  the  truth!) 
Untried,  untrained  to  bear 
The  more  than  kingly  care ! 

Ay  !   and  his  genius  put  to  scorn 
The  proudest  in  the  purple  born, 
Whose  wisdom  never  grew 
To  what,  untaught,  he  knew  — 

The  people,  of  whom  he  was  one. 

No  gentleman  like  Washington,  — 

(  Whose  bones,  methinks,  make  room. 
To  have  him  in  their  tomb  ! ) 

[9] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

A  laboring  man,  with  horny  hands, 
Who  swung  the  axe,  who  tilled  his  lands, 

Who  shrank  from  nothing  new, 

But  did  as  poor  men  do  ! 

One  of  the  people  !      Born  to  be 

Their  curious  epitome; 

To  share,  yet  rise  above 
Their  shifting  hate  and  love. 

Common  his  mind  (it  seemed  so  then), 
His  thoughts  the  thoughts  of  other  men  : 
Plain  were  his  words,  and  poor  — 
But  now  they  will  endure  ! 

No  hasty  fool,  of  stubborn  will, 
But  prudent,  cautious,  pliant,  still; 

Who,  since  his  work  was  good, 

Would  do  it,  as  he  could. 

Doubting,  was  not  ashamed  to  doubt, 
And,  lacking  prescience,  went  without : 
Often  appeared  to  halt, 
And  was,  of  course,  at  fault : 

Heard  all  opinions,  nothing  loth, 
And  loving  both  sides,  angered  both  : 
Was  —  not  like  justice,  blind, 
But  watchful,  clement,  kind. 

[10] 


RICHARD    HENRY    STODDARD 

No  hero  this,  of  Roman  mould; 

Nor  like  our  stately  sires  of  old  : 
Perhaps  he  was  not  great  — 
But  he  preserved  the  State  ! 

O  honest  face,  which  all  men  knew  ! 
O  tender  heart,  but  known  to  few  ! 

O  wonder  of  the  age, 

Cut  off  by  tragic  rage  ! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard 
1865 


By  special  permission  of 

Messrs.  Charles  Scribner' s  Sons. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 
ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

FOULLY    ASSASSINATED,    APRIL     14,     1865 

Y^u  lay  a  wreath  on  murdered  Lincoln's  bier  ! 

Tou,  who  with  mocking  pencil  wont  to  trace, 
Broad  for  the  self-complacent  British  sneer, 

His  length  of  shambling  limb,  his  furrowed  face, 

His  gaunt,  gnarled  hands,  his  unkempt,  bristling  hair, 
His  garb  uncouth,  his  bearing  ill  at  ease, 

His  lack  of  all  we  prize  as  debonair, 

Of  power  or  will  to  shine,  of  art  to  please ; 

Tou,  whose  smart  pen  backed  up  the  pencil's  laugh, 
Judging  each  step,  as  though  the  way  were  plain  ; 

Reckless,  so  it  could  point  its  paragraph, 
Of  chiefs  perplexity,  or  people's  pain  ! 

Beside  this  corpse,  that  bears  for  winding-sheet 
The  stars  and  stripes  he  lived  to  rear  anew, 

Between  the  mourners  at  his  head  and  feet, 
Say,  scurrile  jester,  is  there  room  for  you  ? 

Yes ;  he  had  liv'd  to  shame  me  from  my  sneer, 
To  lame  my  pencil,  and  confute  my  pen, 

To  make  me  own  this  hind  of  princes  peer, 
This  rail-splitter  a  true-born  king  of  men. 

[12] 


TOM    TAYLOR 

My  shallow  judgment  I  had  learn'd  to  rue, 
Noting  how  to  occasion's  height  he  rose ; 

How  his  quaint  wit  made  home-truth  seem  more  true  ; 
How,  iron-like,  his  temper  grew  by  blows ; 

How  humble,  yet  how  hopeful  he  could  be ; 

How  in  good  fortune  and  in  ill  the  same  •, 
Nor  bitter  in  success,  nor  boastful  he, 

Thirsty  for  gold,  nor  feverish  for  fame. 

He  went  about  his  work,  —  such  work  as  few 
Ever  had  laid  on  head  and  heart  and  hand,  — 

As  one  who  knows,  where  there's  a  task  to  do, 

Man's  honest  will  must  Heaven's  good  grace  com- 
mand ; 

Who  trusts  the  strength  will  with  the  burden  grow, 
That  God  makes  instruments  to  work  his  will, 

If  but  that  will  we  can  arrive  to  know, 

Nor  tamper  with  the  weights  of  good  and  ill. 

So  he  went  forth  to  battle,  on  the  side 

That  he  felt  clear  was  Liberty's  and  Right's, 

As  in  his  peasant  boyhood  he  had  plied 

His  warfare  with  rude  Nature's  thwarting  mights,  — 

The  unclear'd  forest,  the  unbroken  soil, 

The  iron  bark  that  turns  the  lumberer's  axe, 

The  rapid  that  o'erbears  the  boatman's  toil, 

The  prairie  hiding  the  maz'd  wanderer's  tracks, 

[13] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

The  ambush'd  Indian,  and  the  prowling  bear,  — 
Such  were  the  deeds  that  help'd  his  youth  to  train  : 

Rough  culture,  but  such  trees  large  fruit  may  bear, 
If  but  their  stocks  be  of  right  girth  and  grain. 

So  he  grew  up,  a  destin'd  work  to  do, 

And  liv'd  to  do  it ;   four  long-suffering  years' 

111  fate,  ill  feeling,  ill  report,  liv'd  through, 

And  then  he  heard  the  hisses  change  to  cheers, 

The  taunts  to  tribute,  the  abuse  to  praise, 

And  took  both  with  the  same  unwavering  mood,  — 

Till,  as  he  came  on  light  from  darkling  days, 

And  seem'd  to  touch  the  goal  from  where  he  stood, 

A  felon  hand,  between  the  goal  and  him, 

Reach'd  from  behind  his  back,  a  trigger  prest  — 

And  those  perplex'd  and  patient  eyes  were  dim, 

Those  gaunt,  long-laboring  limbs  were  laid  to  rest. 

The  words  of  mercy  were  upon  his  lips, 
Forgiveness  in  his  heart  and  on  his  pen, 

When  this  vile  murderer  brought  swift  eclipse 
To  thoughts  of  peace  on  earth,  goodwill  to  men. 

The  Old  World  and  the  New,  from  sea  to  sea, 
Utter  one  voice  of  sympathy  and  shame. 

Sore  heart,  so  stopped  when  it  at  last  beat  high  ! 
Sad  life,  cut  short  just  as  its  triumph  came  ! 


TOM    TAYLOR 

A  deed  accurs'd !     Strokes  have  been  struck  before 
By  the  assassin's  hand,  whereof  men  doubt 

If  more  of  horror  or  disgrace  they  bore  •, 

But  thy  foul  crime,  like  Cain's,  stands  darkly  out, 

Vile  hand,  that  brandest  murder  on  a  strife, 

Whate'er  its  grounds,  stoutly  and  nobly  striven, 

And  with  the  martyr's  crown  crownest  a  life 
With  much  to  praise,  little  to  be  forgiven. 

Tom  Taylor 

Punch,  London,  May  6,  1865 


E'5] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

From 
OUR    HEROIC   THEMES 

(READ  BEFORE  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY  OF 
HARVARD  UNIVERSITY.) 

Crown  we  our  heroes  with  a  holier  wreath 

Than  man  e'er  wore  upon  this  side  of  death  ; 

Mix  with  their  laurels  deathless  asphodels, 

And  chime  their  paeans  from  the  sacred  bells ! 

Nor  in  your  prayers  forget  the  martyred  Chief, 

Fallen  for  the  gospel  of  your  own  belief, 

Who,  ere  he  mounted  to  the  people's  throne, 

Asked  for  your  prayers,  and  joined  in  them  his  own. 

I  knew  the  man.      I  see  him,  as  he  stands 

With  gifts  of  mercy  in  his  outstretched  hands  ; 

A  kindly  light  within  his  gentle  eyes, 

Sad  as  the  toil  in  which  his  heart  grew  wise ; 

His  lips  half-parted  with  the  constant  smile 

That  kindled  truth,  but  foiled  the  deepest  guile ; 

His  head  bent  forward,  and  his  willing  ear 

Divinely  patient  right  and  wrong  to  hear : 

Great  in  his  goodness,  humble  in  his  state, 

Firm  in  his  purpose,  yet  not  passionate, 

He  led  his  people  with  a  tender  hand, 

And  won  by  love  a  sway  beyond  command, 

Summoned  by  lot  to  mitigate  a  time 

Frenzied  with  rage,  unscrupulous  with  crime, 

He  bore  his  mission  with  so  meek  a  heart 

[16] 


GEORGE    HENRY    BOKER 

That  Heaven  itself  took  up  his  people's  part ; 

And  when  he  faltered,  helped  him  ere  he  fell, 

Eking  his  efforts  out  by  miracle. 

No  king  this  man,  by  grace  of  God's  intent ; 

No,  something  better,  freeman,  —  President ! 

A  nature,  modeled  on  a  higher  plan, 

Lord  of  himself,  an  inborn  gentleman  ! 

George  Henry  Boker 
1865 


By  special  permission  of  the 
J.  £.  Lippincott  Co. 


[-7] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

From 
ABRAHAM   LINCOLN 

Dead  is  the  roll  of  the  drums, 
And  the  distant  thunders  die, 
They  fade  in  the  far-off  sky  ; 

And  a  lovely  summer  comes, 
Like  the  smile  of  Him  on  high. 

Lulled,  the  storm  and  the  onset. 

Earth  lies  in  a  sunny  swoon; 

Stiller  splendor  of  noon, 
Softer  glory  of  sunset, 

Milder  starlight  and  moon  ! 

For  the  kindly  Seasons  love  us  ; 

They  smile  over  trench  and  clod 
(Where  we  left  the  bravest  of  us,)  — 

There's  a  brighter  green  of  the  sod, 
And  a  holier  calm  above  us 

In  the  blesse'd  Blue  of  God. 

The  roar  and  ravage  were  vain  ; 

And  Nature,  that  never  yields, 
Is  busy  with  sun  and  rain 
At  her  old  sweet  work  again 

On  the  lonely  battle-fields. 

[18] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

How  the  tall  white  daisies  grow, 
Where  the  grim  artillery  rolled  ! 

(Was  it  only  a  moon  ago  ? 
It  seems  a  century  old,)  — 

And  the  bee  hums  in  the  clover, 
As  the  pleasant  June  comes  on; 

Aye,  the  wars  are  all  over,  — 
But  our  good  Father  is  gone. 

There  was  tumbling  of  traitor  fort, 
Flaming  of  traitor  fleet  — 

Lighting  of  city  and  port, 

Clasping  in  square  and  street. 

There  was  thunder  of  mine  and  gun, 

Cheering  by  mast  and  tent,  — 
When  —  his  dread  work  all  done, 
And  his  high  fame  full  won  — 
Died  the  Good  President. 

In  his  quiet  chair  he  sate, 

Pure  of  malice  or  guile, 
Stainless  of  fear  or  hate,  — 

And  there  played  a  pleasant  smile 
On  the  rough  and  careworn  face; 

For  his  heart  was  all  the  while 
On  means  of  mercy  and  grace. 

C'9] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

The  brave  old  Flag  drooped  o'er  him, 
(A  fold  in  the  hard  hand  lay,)  — 
He  looked,  perchance,  on  the  play,  — 

But  the  scene  was  a  shadow  before  him, 
For  his  thoughts  were  far  away. 


'Twas  but  the  morn,  (yon  fearful 
Death-shade,  gloomy  and  vast, 
Lifting  slowly  at  last,) 
His  household  heard  him  say, 

"  'Tis  long  since  I've  been  so  cheerful, 
So  light  of  heart  as  to-day." 

'Twas  dying,  the  long  dread  clang,  — 
But,  or  ever  the  blessed  ray 
Of  peace  could  brighten  to  day, 
Murder  stood  by  the  way  — 

Treason  struck  home  his  fang  ! 

One  throb  —  and,  without  a  pang, 
That  pure  soul  passed  away. 


Kindly  Spirit !  —  Ah,  when  did  treason 
Bid  such  a  generous  nature  cease, 

Mild  by  temper  and  strong  by  reason, 
But  ever  leaning  to  love  and  peace  ? 

[20] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

A  head  how  sober ;  a  heart  how  spacious ; 

A  manner  equal  with  high  or  low ; 
Rough  but  gentle,  uncouth  but  gracious, 

And  still  inclining  to  lips  of  woe. 

Patient  when  saddest,  calm  when  sternest, 
Grieved  when  rigid  for  justice'  sake ; 

Given  to  jest,  yet  ever  in  earnest 

If  aught  of  right  or  truth  were  at  stake. 

Simple  of  heart,  yet  shrewd  therewith, 
Slow  to  resolve,  but  firm  to  hold  ; 

Still  with  parable  and  with  myth 

Seasoning  truth,  like  Them  of  old  ; 

Aptest  humor  and  quaintest  pith  ! 
(Still  we  smile  o'er  the  tales  he  told.) 

Yet  whoso  might  pierce  the  guise 
Of  mirth  in  the  man  we  mourn, 

Would  mark,  and  with  grieved  surprise, 
All  the  great  soul  had  borne, 

In  the  piteous  lines,  and  the  kind,  sad  eyes 
So  dreadfully  wearied  and  worn. 

And  we  trusted  (the  last  dread  page 

Once  turned,  of  our  Dooms-day  Scroll,) 
To  have  seen  him,  sunny  of  soul, 

In  a  cheery,  grand  old  age. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

But,  Father,  'tis  well  with  thee  ! 

And  since  ever,  when  God  draws  nigh, 
Some  grief  for  the  good  must  be, 

'Twas  well,  even  so  to  die,  — 

'Mid  the  thunder  of  Treason's  fall, 
The  yielding  of  haughty  town, 

The  crashing  of  cruel  wall, 

The  trembling  of  tyrant  crown  ! 

The  ringing  of  hearth  and  pavement 
To  the  clash  of  falling  chains, — 

The  centuries  of  enslavement 

Dead,  with  their  blood-bought  gains  ! 

And  through  trouble  weary  and  long, 
Well  hadst  thou  seen  the  way, 

Leaving  the  State  so  strong 
It  did  not  reel  for  a  day  ; 

And  even  in  death  couldst  give 
A  token  for  Freedom's  strife  — 

A  proof  how  republics  live, 
And  not  by  a  single  life, 

But  the  Right  Divine  of  man, 

And  the  many,  trained  to  be  free, — 

And  none,  since  the  world  began, 
Ever  was  mourned  like  thee. 

[22] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

Dost  thou  feel  it,  O  noble  Heart ! 

(So  grieved  and  so  wronged  below,) 
From  the  rest  wherein  thou  art  ? 
Do  they  see  it,  those  patient  eyes  ? 
Is  there  heed  in  the  happy  skies 

For  tokens  of  world-wide  woe  ? 

The  Land's  great  lamentations, 
The  mighty  mourning  of  cannon, 

The  myriad  flags  half-mast  — 
The  late  remorse  of  the  nations, 
Grief  from  Volga  to  Shannon  ! 
(Now  they  know  thee  at  last.) 

How,  from  gray  Niagara's  shore 
To  Canaveral's  surfy  shoal  — 

From  the  rough  Atlantic  roar 
To  the  long  Pacific  roll  — 
For  bereavement  and  for  dole, 

Every  cottage  wears  its  weed, 
White  as  thine  own  pure  soul, 

And  black  as  the  traitor  deed. 

How,  under  a  nation's  pall, 
The  dust  so  dear  in  our  sight 

To  its  home  on  the  prairie  past, — 
The  leagues  of  funeral, 

The  myriads,  morn  and  night, 
Pressing  to  look  their  last. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

Nor  alone  the  State's  Eclipse ; 

But  tears  in  hard  eyes  gather  — 
And  on  rough  and  bearded  lips, 
Of  the  regiments  and  the  ships  — 

"  Oh,  our  dear  Father  ! " 

And  methinks  of  all  the  million 

That  looked  on  the  dark  dead  face, 
'Neath  its  sable-plumed  pavilion, 

The  crone  of  a  humbler  race 
Is  saddest  of  all  to  think  on, 

And  the  old  swart  lips  that  said, 
Sobbing,  "  Abraham  Lincoln  ! 

Oh,  he  is  dead,  he  is  dead  ! " 

Hush  !   let  our  heavy  souls 

To-day  be  glad  ;   for  agen 
The  stormy  music  swells  and  rolls, 

Stirring  the  hearts  of  men. 

And  under  the  Nation's  Dome, 

They've  guarded  so  well  and  long, 

Our  boys  come  marching  home, 
Two  hundred  thousand  strong. 

All  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
With  war-worn  colors  and  drums, 

Still  through  the  livelong  summer's  day, 
Regiment,  regiment  comes. 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

Like  the  tide,  yesty  and  barmy, 
That  sets  on  a  wild  lee-shore, 

Surge  the  ranks  of  an  army 
Never  reviewed  before ! 

Who  shall  look  on  the  like  agen, 
Or  see  such  host  of  the  brave  ? 

A  mighty  River  of  marching  men 
Rolls  the  Capital  through  — 

Rank  on  rank,  and  wave  on  wave, 
Of  bayonet-crested  blue  ! 

How  the  chargers  neigh  and  champ, 
(Their  riders  weary  of  camp,) 

With  curvet  and  with  caracole  !  — 
The  cavalry  comes  with  thundrous  tramp, 

And  the  cannons  heavily  roll. 

And  ever,  flowery  and  gay, 
The  Staff  sweeps  on  in  a  spray 

Of  tossing  forelocks  and  manes  ; 
But  each  bridle-arm  has  a  weed 
Of  funeral,  black  as  the  steed 

That  fiery  Sheridan  reins. 

Grandest  of  mortal  sights 

The  sun-browned  ranks  to  view  — 
The  Colors  ragg'd  in  a  hundred  fights, 

And  the  dusty  Frocks  of  Blue  ! 


THE     MEMORY    OF     LINCOLN 

And  all  day,  mile  on  mile, 

With  cheer,  and  waving,  and  smile, 

The  war-worn  legions  defile 

Where  the  nation's  noblest  stand  ; 
And  the  Great  Lieutenant  looks  on, 

With  the  Flower  of  a  rescued  Land, 
For  the  terrible  work  is  done, 
And  the  Good  Fight  is  won 

For  God  and  for  Fatherland. 

So,  from  the  fields  they  win, 
Our  men  are  marching  home, 
A  million  are  marching  home! 

To  the  cannon's  thundering  din, 
And  banners  on  mast  and  dome, — 

And  the  ships  come  sailing  in 

With  all  their  ensigns  dight, 

As  erst  for  a  great  sea-fight. 

Let  every  color  fly, 

Every  pennon  flaunt  in  pride ; 
Wave,  Starry  Flag,  on  high ! 
Float  in  the  sunny  sky, 

Stream  o'er  the  stormy  tide  ! 
For  every  stripe  of  stainless  hue, 
And  every  star  in  the  field  of  blue, 
Ten  thousand  of  the  brave  and  true 

Have  laid  them  down  and  died. 
[26] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

And  in  all  our  pride  to-day 
We  think,  with  a  tender  pain, 

Of  those  so  far  away 

They  will  not  come  home  again. 

And  our  boys  had  fondly  thought, 

To-day,  in  marching  by, 
From  the  ground  so  dearly  bought, 
And  the  fields  so  bravely  fought, 

To  have  met  their  Father's  eye. 

But  they  may  not  see  him  in  place, 
Nor  their  ranks  be  seen  of  him ; 

We  look  for  the  well-known  face, 
And  the  splendor  is  strangely  dim. 

Perished  ?  —  who  was  it  said 
Our  Leader  had  passed  away  ? 

Dead  ?      Our  President  dead  ? 
He  has  not  died  for  a  day  ! 

We  mourn  for  a  little  breath 

Such  as,  late  or  soon,  dust  yields ; 

But  the  Dark  Flower  of  Death 
Blooms  in  the  fadeless  fields. 

We  looked  on  a  cold,  still  brow, 
But  Lincoln  could  yet  survive ; 
He  never  was  more  alive, 

Never  nearer  than  now. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

For  the  pleasant  season  found  him, 
Guarded  by  faithful  hands, 
In  the  fairest  of  Summer  Lands ; 

With  his  own  brave  Staff  around  him, 
There  our  President  stands. 

There  they  are  all  at  his  side, 
The  noble  hearts  and  true, 
That  did  all  men  might  do  — 

Then  slept,  with  their  swords,  and  died. 

And  around  —  (for  there  can  cease 
This  earthly  trouble)  —  they  throng, 

The  friends  that  have  passed  in  peace, 
The  foes  that  have  seen  their  wrong. 

(But,  a  little  from  the  rest, 
With  sad  eyes  looking  down, 
And  brows  of  softened  frown, 

With  stern  arms  on  the  chest, 

Are  two,  standing  abreast  — 

Stonewall  and  Old  John  Brown.) 

But  the  stainless  and  the  true, 
These  by  their  President  stand, 

To  look  on  his  last  review, 

Or  march  with  the  old  command. 
[28] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

And  lo  !   from  a  thousand  fields, 
From  all  the  old  battle-haunts, 

A  greater  Army  than  Sherman  wields, 
A  grander  Review  than  Grant's ! 

Gathered  home  from  the  grave, 
Risen  from  sun  and  rain  — 

Rescued  from  wind  and  wave 
Out  of  the  stormy  main  — 

The  Legions  of  our  Brave 
Are  all  in  their  lines  again  ' 

Many  a  stout  Corps  that  went, 
Full-ranked,  from  camp  and  tent, 

And  brought  back  a  brigade ; 
Many  a  brave  regiment, 

That  mustered  only  a  squad. 

The  lost  battalions, 

That,  when  the  fight  went  wrong, 
Stood  and  died  at  their  guns,  — 

The  stormers  steady  and  strong, 

With  their  best  blood  that  bought 

O 

Scarp,  and  ravelin,  and  wall, — 
The  companies  that  fought 

Till  a  corporal's  guard  was  all. 

[29] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

Many  a  valiant  crew, 

That  passed  in  battle  and  wreck,— 
Ah,  so  faithful  and  true  ! 

They  died  on  the  bloody  deck, 
They  sank  in  the  soundless  blue. 

All  the  loyal  and  bold 

That  lay  on  a  soldier's  bier,  — 
The  stretchers  borne  to  the  rear, 

The  hammocks  lowered  to  the  hold. 

The  shattered  wreck  we  hurried, 

In  death-fight,  from  deck  and   port,- 

The  Blacks  that  Wagner  buried  — 
That  died  in  the  Bloody  Fort  ! 

Comrades  of  camp  and  mess, 

Left,  as  they  lay,  to  die, 
In  the  battle's  sorest  stress, 

When  the  storm  of  fight  swept  by,  - 
They  lay  in  the  Wilderness, 

Ah,  where  did  they  not  lie  ? 

In  the  tangled  swamp  they  lay, 

They  lay  so  still  on  the  sward  !  — 

They  rolled  in  the  sick-bay, 

Moaning  their  lives  away  — 

They  flushed  in  the  fevered  ward. 
[30] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

They  rotted  in  Libby  yonder, 

They  starved  in  the  foul  stockade  — 

Hearing  afar  the  thunder 
Of  the  Union  cannonade  I 

But  the  old  wounds  all  are  healed, 
And  the  dungeoned  limbs  are  free,  - 

The  Blue  Frocks  rise  from  the  field, 
The  Blue  Jackets  out  of  the  sea. 

They've  'scaped  from  the  torture-den, 

They've  broken  the  bloody  sod, 
They're  all  come  to  life  agen  !  — 
The  Third  of  a  Million  men 

That  died  for  Thee  -and  for  God  ! 

A  tenderer  green  than  May 
The  Eternal  Season  wears, — 

The  blue  of  our  summer's  day 
Is  dim  and  pallid  to  theirs,  — 

The  Horror  faded  away, 

And  'twas  heaven  all  unawares ! 

Tents  on  the  Infinite  Shore  ! 

Flags  in  the  azuline  sky, 
Sails  on  the  seas  once  more ! 

To-day,  in  the  heaven  on  high, 
All  under  arms  once  more  ! 

[31] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

The  troops  are  all  in  their  lines, 
The  guidons  flutter  and  play  ; 

But  every  bayonet  shines, 
For  all  must  march  to-day. 

What  lofty  pennons  flaunt  ? 
What  mighty  echoes  haunt, 

As  of  great  guns,  o'er  the  main  ? 

Hark  to  the  sound  again  — 
The  Congress  is  all  a-taunt ! 

The  Cumberland's  manned  again  ! 

Ail  the  ships  and  their  men 
Are  in  line  of  battle  to-day,  — 

All  at  quarters,  as  when 

Their  last  roll  thundered  away, — 

All  at  their  guns,  as  then, 
For  the  Fleet  salutes  to-day. 

The  armies  have  broken  camp 
On  the  vast  and  sunny  plain, 
The  drums  are  rolling  again  -, 

With  steady,  measured  tramp, 
They're  marching  all  again. 

With  alignment  firm  and  solemn, 

Once  again  they  form 
In  mighty  square  and  column, — 

But  never  for  charge  and  storm. 

[32] 


HENRY    HOWARD    BROWNELL 

The  Old  Flag  they  died  under 
Floats  above  them  on  the  shore, 

And  on  the  great  ships  yonder 
The  ensigns  dip  once  more  — 

And  once  again  the  thunder 
Of  the  thirty  guns  and  four  ! 

In  solid  platoons  of  steel, 

Under  heaven's  triumphal  arch, 

The  long  lines  break  and  wheel  — 

And  the  word  is,  "  Forward,  march  !  " 

The  Colors  ripple  o'erhead, 
The  drums  roll  up  to  the  sky, 

And  with  martial  time  and  tread 
The  regiments  all  pass  by  — 

The  ranks  of  our  faithful  Dead, 
Meeting  their  President's  eye. 

With  a  soldier's  quiet  pride 

They  smile  o'er  the  perished  pain, 
For  their  anguish  was  not  vain  — 

For  thee,  O  Father,  we  died  ! 
And  we  did  not  die  in  vain. 

March  on,  your  last  brave  mile  ! 

Salute  him,  Star  and  Lace, 
Form  round  him,  rank  and  file, 

And  look  on  the  kind,  rough  face ; 

[33] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

But  the  quaint  and  homely  smile 
Has  a  glory  and  a  grace 

It  never  had  known  erewhile  — 
Never,  in  time  and  space. 

Close  round  him,  hearts  of  pride  ! 
Press  near  him,  side  by  side,  — 

Our  Father  is  not  alone  ! 
For  the  Holy  Right  ye  died, 
And  Christ,  the  Crucified, 

Waits  to  welcome  His  own. 

Henry  Howard  BrownelL 
1865 


[34] 


HERMAN    MELVILLE 
THE    MARTYR 

INDICATIVE    OF    THE    PASSION    OF    THE    PEOPLE  ON  THE 
I5TH    OF    APRIL,     1865 

Good  Friday  was  the  day 

Of  the  prodigy  and  crime, 
When  they  killed  him  in  his  pity, 

When  they  killed  him  in  his  prime 
Of  clemency  and  calm  — 

When  with  yearning  he  was  filled 

To  redeem  the  evil-willed, 
And,  though  conqueror,  be  kind  ; 

But  they  killed  him  in  his  kindness, 
In  their  madness  and  their  blindness, 
And  they  killed  him  from  behind. 

There  is  sobbing  of  the  strong, 
And  a  pall  upon  the  land ; 

But  the  People  in  their  weeping    • 
Bare  the  iron  hand  : 

Beware  the  People  weeping 

When  they  bare  the  iron  hand. 

He  lieth  in  his  blood  — 

The  father  in  his  face ; 
They  have  killed  him,  the  Forgiver  — 

The  Avenger  takes  his  place, 

[35] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

The  Avenger  wisely  stern, 

Who  in  righteousness  shall  do 
What  the  heavens  call  him  to, 
And  the  parricides  remand ; 

For  they  killed  him  in  his  kindness, 
In  their  madness  and  their  blindness, 
And  his  blood  is  on  their  hand. 

There  is  sobbing  of  the  strong, 
And  a  pall  upon  the  land ; 

But  the  People  in  their  weeping 
Bare  the  iron  hand : 

Beware  the  People  weeping 

When  they  bare  the  iron  hand. 

Herman  Melville. 
1865. 

By  special  permission  of 

Messrs.  Harper  &  Brothers. 


[36] 


WALT    WHITMAN 

WHEN    LILACS    LAST    IN    THE 
DOORYARD    BLOOM'D. 

i 

When  lilacs  last  in  the  dooryard  bloom'd, 

And  the  great  star  early  droop'd  in  the  western  sky 

in  the  night, 
I  mourn'd,  and  yet  shall  mourn  with  ever-returning 

spring. 

Ever-returning  spring,  trinity  sure  to  me  you  bring, 
Lilac    blooming    perennial   and  drooping  star  in  the 

west, 
And  thought  of  him  I  love. 

2 

O  powerful  western  fallen  star ! 

O  shades  of  night  —  O  moody,  tearful  night ! 

O  great  star  disappear'd  —  O  the  black  murk    that 

hides  the  star! 
O  cruel  hands  that  hold  me  powerless — O  helpless 

soul  of  me ! 
O  harsh  surrounding  cloud  that  will  not  free  my  soul. 

3 

In  the  dooryard  fronting  an  old  farm-house  near  the 

white-wash'd  palings, 
Stands  the  lilac-bush  tall-growing  with  heart-shaped 

leaves  of  rich  green, 

[37] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

With  many  a  pointed  blossom  rising  delicate,  with 

the  perfume  strong  I  love, 
With  every  leaf  a  miracle  —  and  from  this  bush  in 

the  dooryard, 
With  delicate-color'd  blossoms  and  heart-shaped  leaves 

of  rich  green, 
A  sprig  with  its  flower  I  break. 

4 

In  the  swamp  in  secluded  recesses, 
A  shy  and  hidden  bird  is  warbling  a  song. 

Solitary  the  thrush, 

The  hermit  withdrawn  to  himself,  avoiding  the  settle- 
ments, 
Sings  by  himself  a  song. 

Song  of  the  bleeding  throat, 

Death's  outlet  song  of  life,  (for  well  dear  brother  I 

know, 
If  thou  wast  not  granted  to  sing  thou  would'st  surely 

die.) 

5 

Over  the  breast  of  the  spring,  the  land,  amid  cities, 
Amid  lanes  and  through  old  woods,  where  lately  the 

violets    peep'd    from   the   ground,    spotting    the 

gray  debris, 

[38] 


WALT    WHITMAN 

Amid   the  grass  in  the  fields  each  side  of  the  lanes, 

passing  the  endless  grass, 
Passing  the   yellow-spear'd  wheat,  every  grain   from 

its  shroud  in  the  dark-brown  fields  uprisen, 
Passing  the  apple-tree  blows  of  white  and  pink  in  the 

orchards, 

Carrying  a  corpse  to  where  it  shall  rest  in  the  grave, 
Night  and  day  journeys  a  coffin. 


Coffin  that  passes  through  lanes  and  streets, 
Through  day  and  night  with  the  great  cloud  darken- 
ing the  land, 
With  the  pomp  of  the  inloop'd  flags  with  the  cities 

draped   in  black, 
With  the  show  of  the  States  themselves  as  of  crape- 

veil'd  women  standing, 
With  processions  long  and  winding  and  the  flambeaus 

of  the  night, 
With  the  countless  torches  lit,  with  the  silent  sea  of 

faces  and  the  unbared  heads, 
With  the  waiting  depot,  the  arriving  coffin,  and  the 

sombre  faces, 
With  the  dirges  through  the  night,  with  the  thousand 

voices  rising  strong  and  solemn, 
With  all   the  mournful   voices  of  the  dirges  pour'd 

around  the  coffin, 

[39] 


THE    MEMORY     OF    LINCOLN 

The  dim-lit  churches  and  the  shuddering  organs  — 

where  amid  these  you  journey, 
With  the  tolling  tolling  bell's  perpetual  clang, 
Here,  coffin  that  slowly  passes, 
I  give  you  my  sprig  of  lilac. 

7 

(Nor  for  you,  for  one  alone, 

Blossoms  and  branches  green  to  coffins  all  I  bring, 
For  fresh  as  the  morning,  thus  would  I  chant  a  song 
for  you  O  sane  and  sacred  death. 

All  over  bouquets  of  roses, 

O  death,  I  cover  you  over  with  roses  and  early  lilies, 

But  mostly  and  now  the  lilac  that  blooms  the  first, 

Copious  I  break,  I  break  the  sprigs  from  the  bushes, 

With  loaded  arms  I  come,  pouring  for  you, 

For  you  and  the  coffins  all  of  you  O  death  !) 

8 

O  western  orb  sailing  the  heaven, 
Now  I  know  what  you  must  have  meant  as  a  month 

since  I  walk'd, 

As  I  walk'd  in  silence  the  transparent  shadowy  night, 
As  I  saw  you  had  something  to  tell  as  you  bent  to  me 

night  after  night, 
As  you  dropp'd  from  the  sky  low  down  as  if  to  my 

side,  (while  the  other  stars  all  look'd  on,) 

[40] 


WALT    WHITMAN 

As  we  wander' d  together  the  solemn  night,  (for  some- 
thing I  know  not  what  kept  me  from  sleep,) 

As  the  night  advanced,  and  I  saw  on  the  rim  of  the 
west  how  full  you  were  of  woe, 

As  I  stood  on  the  rising  ground  in  the  breeze  in  the 
cool  transparent  night, 

As  I  watch'd  where  you  pass'd  and  was  lost  in  the 
netherward  black  of  the  night, 

As  my  soul  in  its  trouble  dissatisfied  sank,  as  where 
you  sad  orb, 

Concluded,  dropt  in  the  night,  and  was  gone. 

9 
Sing  on  there  in  the  swamp, 

0  singer  bashful  and  tender,  I    hear   your  notes,  I 

hear  your  call, 

1  hear,  I  come  presently,  I  understand  you, 

But    a  moment    I    linger,   for  the    lustrous   star  has 

detain'd  me, 
The  star  my  departing  comrade  holds  and  detains  me. 

10 
O  how  shall  I  warble  myself  for  the  dead  one  there  I 

loved  ? 
And  how  shall   I   deck   my  song  for  the    large  sweet 

soul  that  has  gone  ? 
And  what  shall  my  perfume  be  for  the  grave  of  him  I 

love  ? 

[41] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

Sea-winds  blown  from  east  and  west, 

Blown    from   the   Eastern    sea   and   blown   from    the 

Western  sea,  till  there  on  the  prairies  meeting, 
These  and  with  these  and  the  breath  of  my  chant, 
I'll  perfume  the  grave  of  him  I  love. 


1 1 

O  what  shall  I  hang  on  the  chamber  walls  ? 
And  what  shall  the  pictures  be  that  I  hang  on   the 

walls, 
To  adorn  the  burial-house  of  him  I  love  ? 

Pictures  of  growing  spring  and  farms  and  homes, 
With  the  Fourth-month  eve  at  sundown,  and  the  gray 

smoke  lucid  and  bright, 

With  floods  of  the  yellow  gold  of  the  gorgeous,  indo- 
lent, sinking  sun,  burning,  expanding  the  air, 
With    the  fresh  sweet   herbage  under   foot,  and  the 

pale  green  leaves  of  the  trees  prolific, 
In  the  distance  the  flowing  glaze,  the  breast  of  the 

river,  with  a  wind-dapple  here  and  there, 
With  ranging  hills  on  the  banks,  with  many  a  line 

against  the  sky,  and  shadows, 
And   the  city  at  hand  with  dwellings   so  dense,  and 

stacks  of  chimneys, 
And  all  the  scenes  of  life  and  the  workshops,  and  the 

workmen  homeward  returning. 

[42] 


WALT    WHITMAN 

12 

Lo,  body  and  soul  —  this  land, 

My  own  Manhattan  with  spires,  and  the  sparkling  and 

hurrying  tides,  and  the  ships, 
The  varied  and  ample  land,  the  South  and  the  North 

in  the  light,  Ohio's  shores  and  flashing  Missouri, 
And  ever  the  far-spreading  prairies  cover'd  with  grass 

and  corn. 

Lo,  the  most  excellent  sun  so  calm  and  haughty, 
The  violet  and  purple  morn  with  just-felt  breezes, 
The  gentle  soft-born  measureless  light, 
The  miracle  spreading  bathing  all,  the  fulfill'd  noon, 
The  coming  eve  delicious,  the  welcome  night  and  the 

stars, 
Over  my  cities  shining  all,  enveloping  man  and  land. 


Sing  on,  sing  on  you  gray-brown  bird, 

Sing  from  the  swamps,  the  recesses,  pour  your  chant 

from  the  bushes, 
Limitless  out  of  the  dusk,  out  of  the  cedars  and  pines. 

Sing  on,  dearest  brother,  warble  your  reedy  song, 
Loud  human  song,  with  voice  of  uttermost  woe. 

O  liquid  and  free  and  tender  ! 

O  wild  and  loose  to  my  soul  —  O  wondrous  singer  ! 

[43] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

You  only  I  hear  —  yet  the  star  holds   me,  (but   will 

soon  depart,) 
Yet  the  lilac  with  mastering  odor  holds  me. 

H 

Now  while  I  sat  in  the  day  and  look'd  forth, 

In  the  close  of  the  day  with  its  light  and  the  fields  of 
spring,  and  the  farmers  preparing  their  crops, 

In  the  large  unconcious  scenery  of  my  land  with  its 
lakes  and  forests, 

In  the  heavenly  aerial  beauty,  (after  the  perturb'd 
winds  and  the  storms,) 

Under  the  arching  heavens  of  the  afternoon  swift 
passing,  and  the  voices  of  children  and  women, 

The  many  moving  sea-tides,  and  I  saw  the  ships  how 
they  sail'd, 

And  the  summer  approaching  with  richness,  and  the 
fields  all  busy  with  labor, 

And  the  infinite  separate  houses,  how  they  all  went 
on,  each  with  its  meals  and  minutia  of  daily 
usages, 

And  the  streets  how  their  throbbings  throbb'd,  and  the 
cities  pent  —  lo,  then  and  there, 

Falling  upon  them  all,  and  among  them  all,  envelop- 
ing me  with  the  rest, 

Appear'd  the  cloud,  appear'd  the  long,  black  trail, 

And  I  knew  death,  its  thought,  and  the  sacred  knowl- 
edge of  death. 

[44] 


WALT   WHITMAN 

Then  with  the  knowledge  of  death  as  walking  one 
side  of  me, 

And  the  thought  of  death  close-walking  the  other  side 
of  me, 

And  I  in  the  middle  as  with  companions,  and  as  hold- 
ing the  hands  of  companions, 

I  fled  forth  to  the  hiding  receiving  night  that  talks  not, 

Down  to  the  shores  of  the  water,  the  path  by  the 
swamp  in  the  dimness, 

To  the  solemn  shadowy  cedars  and  ghostly  pines  so 
still. 

And  the  singer  so  shy  to  the  rest  receiv'd  me, 

The  gray-brown  bird   I  know   receiv'd   us  comrades 

three, 
And  he  sang  the  carol  of  death,  and  a  verse  for  him  I 

love. 

From  deep  secluded  recesses, 

From  the  fragrant  cedars   and  the  ghostly  pines   so 

still, 
Came  the  carol  of  the  bird. 

And  the  charm  of  the  carol  rapt  me, 

As  I  held  as  if  by  their  hands  my  comrades  in  the 

night, 
And  the  voice  of  my  spirit   tallied  the  song  of  the 

bird. 

[45] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

Come  lovely  and  soothing  death, 

Undulate  round  the  world,  serenely  arriving,  arriving, 

In  the  day,  in  the  night,  to  all,  to  each, 

Sooner  or  later  delicate  death. 

Prais'd  be  the  fathomless  universe, 
For  life  and  joy ,  and  for  objects  and  knowledge  curious, 
And  for  love,  sweet  love  —  but  praise  !  praise  !  praise  ! 
For  the  sure-enwinding  arms  of  cool-enfolding  death. 

Dark  mother  always  gliding  near  with  soft  feet, 
Have  none  chanted  for  thee  a  chant  of  fullest  welcome? 
Then  I  chant  it  for  thee,  I  glorify  thee  above  all, 
I  bring  thee  a  song  that  when   thou   must  indeed  come, 
come  unfalteringly. 

Approach  strong  deliveress, 

When  it  is  so,  when  thou  hast  taken  them  I  joyously  sing 

the  dead, 

Lost  in  the  loving  floating  ocean  of  thee, 
Laved  in  the  flood  of  thy  bliss  O  death. 

From  me  to  thee  glad  serenades, 

Dances  for  thee  I  propose  saluting  thee,  adornments  and 

f  eastings  for  thee, 
And  the  sights  of  the  open  landscape  and  the  high-spread 

sky  are  fitting, 
And  life  and  the  fields,  and  the  huge  and  thoughtful 

night. 

[46] 


WALT   WHITMAN 

The  night  in  silence  under  many  a  star, 

The  ocean  shore  and  the  husky  whispering  wave  whose 

voice  I  know, 

And  the  soul  turning  to  thee  O  vast  and  well-veiFd  death, 
And  the  body  gratefully  nestling  close  to  thee. 

Over  the  tree-tops  I  float  thee  a  song, 

Over  the  rising  and   sinking   waves,  over  the  myriad 

fields  and  the  prairies  wide, 
Over  the  dense-pack' d  cities  all  and  the  teeming  wharves 

and  ways, 
1  float  this  faro  I  with  joy,  with  joy  to  thee  O  death. 

15 

To  the  tally  of  my  soul, 

Loud  and  strong  kept  up  the  gray-brown  bird, 

With  pure  deliberate  notes  spreading  filling  the  night. 

Loud  in  the  pines  and  cedars  dim, 

Clear  in  the  freshness  moist  and  the  swamp-perfume, 

And  I  with  my  comrades  there  in  the  night. 

While  my  sight  that  was  bound  in  my  eyes  unclosed, 
As  to  long  panoramas  of  visions. 

And  I  saw  askant  the  armies, 

I  saw  as  in  noiseless  dreams  hundreds  of  battle-flags, 
Borne  through  the  smoke  of  the  battles  and  pierc'd 
with  missiles  I  saw  them, 

[47] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

And  carried  hither  and  yon  through  the  smoke,  and 

torn  and  bloody, 
And  at  last  but  a  few  shreds  left  on  the  staffs,  (and 

all  in  silence,) 
And  the  staffs  all  splinter'd  and  broken. 

I  saw  battle-corpses,  myriads  of  them, 

And  the  white  skeletons  of  young  men,  I  saw  them, 

I  saw  the  debris  and  debris  of  all  the  slain  soldiers  of 

the  war, 

But  I  saw  they  were  not  as  was  thought, 
They  themselves  were  fully  at  rest,  they  suffer'd  not, 
The  living  remain'd  and  suffer'd,  the  mother  suffer'd, 
And  the  wife  and  the  child  and  the  musing  comrade 

suffer'd, 
And  the  armies  that  remain'd  suffered. 

16 

Passing  the  visions,  passing  the  night, 

Passing,  unloosing  the  hold  of  my  comrades'  hands, 

Passing  the  song  of  the  hermit  bird  and  the  tallying 
song  of  my  soul, 

Victorious  song,  death's  outlet  song,  yet  varying  ever- 
altering  song, 

As  low  and  wailing,  yet  clear  the  notes,  rising  and 
falling,  flooding  the  night, 

Sadly  sinking  and  fainting,  as  warning  and  warning, 
and  yet  again  bursting  with  joy, 

[48] 


WALT    WHITMAN 

Covering  the  earth  and  filling  the  spread  of  the  heaven, 
As   that  powerful   psalm  in  the  night   I   heard    from 

recesses, 

Passing,  I  leave  thee  lilac   with   heart-shaped  leaves, 
I  leave  thee    there  in  the  'door-yard,  blooming,  re- 
turning with  spring. 

I  cease  from  my  song  for  thee, 

From  my  gaze  on  thee  in  the  west,  fronting  the  west, 

communing  with  thee, 
O  comrade  lustrous  with  silver  face  in  the  night. 

Yet  each  to  keep  and  all,  retrievements  out  of  the  night, 
The  song,  the  wondrous  chant  of  the  gray-brown  bird, 
And  the  tallying  chant,  the  echo  arous'd  in  my  soul, 
With  the  lustrous  and  drooping  star  with  the  counte- 
nance full  of  woe, 
With  the  holders  holding  my  hand   nearing  the  call 

of  the  bird, 
Comrades  mine  and  I  in  the  midst,  and  their  memory 

ever  to  keep,  for  the  dead  I  loved  so  well, 
For  the  sweetest,  wisest  soul  of  all  my  days  and  lands 

—  and  this  for  his  dear  sake, 
Lilac  and  star  and  bird  twined  with  the  chant  of  my 

soul, 
There  in  the  fragrant  pines  and  the  cedars  dusk  and  dim. 

Walt  Whitman. 
1865. 

[49] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

From  the 
GETTYSBURG    ODE 

DEDICATION    OF    THE    NATIONAL    MONUMENT 

After  the  eyes  that  looked,  the  lips  that  spake 
Here,  from  the  shadows  of  impending  death, 
Those  words  of  solemn  breath, 
What  voice  may  fitly  break 
The  silence,  doubly  hallowed,  left  by  him  ? 
We  can  but  bow  the  head,  with  eyes  grown  dim, 

And,  as  a  Nation's  litany,  repeat 
The  phrase  his  martyrdom  hath  made  complete, 
Noble  as  then,  but  now  more  sadly  sweet  : 
"  Let  us,  the  Living,  rather  dedicate 
Ourselves  to  the  unfinished  work,  which  they 
Thus  far  advanced  so  nobly  on  its  way, 

And  saved  the  perilled  State  ! 
Let  us,  upon  this  field  where  they,  the  brave, 
Their  last  full  measure  of  devotion  gave, 
Highly  resolve  they  have  not  died  in  vain  !  — 
That,  under  God,  the  Nation's  later  birth 

Of  Freedom,  and  the  people's  gain 
Of  their  own  Sovereignty,  shall  never  wane 
And  perish  from  the  circle  of  the  earth !  " 
From  such  a  perfect  text,  shall  Song  aspire 
To  light  her  faded  fire, 

And  into  wandering  music  turn 
Its  virtue,  simple,  sorrowful,  and  stern  ? 

[50] 


BAYARD    TAYLOR 

His  voice  all  elegies  anticipated ; 

For,  whatsoe'er  the  strain, 

We  hear  that  one  refrain  : 

"  We    consecrate    ourselves    to    them,    the    Con- 
secrated !  " 

Bayard  Taylor. 
1869. 

By  special  permission  of 

Messrs.  Hougbton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


[5'] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

ABRAHAM    LINCOLN 

This  man  whose  homely  face  you  look  upon 
Was  one  of  Nature's  masterful,  great  men  ; 
Born  with  strong  arms,  that  unfought  battles  won, 
Direct  of  speech  and  cunning  with  the  pen. 
Chosen  for  large  designs,  he  had  the  art 
Of  winning  with  his  humor,  and  he  went 
Straight  to  his  mark,  which  was  the  human  heart ; 
Wise,  too,  for  what  he  could  not  break,  he  bent. 
Upon  his  back  a  more  than  Atlas-load, 
The  burden  of  the  Commonwealth,  was  laid  ; 
He  stooped,  and  rose  up  to  it,  though  the  road 
Shot  suddenly  downward,  not  a  whit  dismayed  : 
Patiently  resolute,  what  the  stern  hour 
Demanded,  that  he  was, —  that  Man,  that  Power. 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 
I877. 


By  special  permission  of 

Messrs.   Charles  Scribner1  s  Sons. 


[52] 


JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

THE    EMANCIPATION  GROUP 

(PARK  SQUARE,  BOSTON  ;  DUPLICATE  OF  THE  FREED- 
MEN'S  MEMORIAL  STATUE,  LINCOLN  SQUARE,  WASH- 
INGTON) 

Amidst  thy  sacred  effigies 

Of  old  renown  give  place, 
O  city,  Fredom-loved  !  to  his 

Whose  hand  unchained  a  race. 

Take  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not 

Save  in  a  martyr's  grave  ; 
The  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, 

Bent  to  the  kneeling  slave. 

Let  man  be  free  !     The  mighty  word 

He  spoke  was  not  his  own ; 
An  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred 

These  chiselled  lips  alone. 

The  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran, 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 

Saw  peril,  strife,  and  pain; 
His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 

And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

[53] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

O  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth 

As  it  is  done  above  ! 
Bear  witness  to  the  cost  and  worth 

Of  justice  and  of  love. 

Stand  in  thy  place  and  testify 

To  coming  ages  long, 
That  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, 

And  righteousness  than  wrong. 

John  Greenleaf  Wbittier. 
I879. 

Sy  special  permission  of 

Messrs.  Hougbton,  Mifflin  &  Co. 


[54] 


EDMUND    CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

THE  HAND  OF    LINCOLN 

Look  on  this  cast,  and  know  the  hand 

That  bore  a  nation  in  its  hold  : 
From  this  mute  witness  understand 

What  Lincoln  was,  —  how  large  of  mould 

The  man  who  sped  the  woodman's  team, 
And  deepest  sunk  the  ploughman's  share, 

And  pushed  the  laden  raft  astream, 
Of  fate  before  him  unaware. 

This  was  the  hand  that  knew  to  swing 

The  axe  —  since  thus  would  Freedom  train 

Her  son  —  and  made  the  forest  ring, 
And  drove  the  wedge,  and  toiled  amain. 

Firm  hand,  that  loftier  office  took, 
A  conscious  leader's  will  obeyed, 

And,  when  men  sought  his  word  and  look, 
With  steadfast  might  the  gathering  swayed. 

No  courtier's,  toying  with  a  sword, 
Nor  minstrel's,  laid  across  a  lute  ; 

A  chief's,  uplifted  to  the  Lord 

When  all  the  kings  of  earth  were  mute  ! 

[55] 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

The  hand  of  Anak,  sinewed  strong, 
The  fingers  that  on  greatness  clutch ; 

Yet  lo  !  the  marks  their  lines  along 

Of  one  who  strove  and  suffered  much. 

For  here  in  knotted  cord  and  vein 
I  trace  the  varying  chart  of  years ; 

I  know  the  troubled  heart,  the  strain, 
The  weight  of  Atlas  —  and  the  tears. 

Again  I  see  the  patient  brow 

That  palm  erewhile  was  wont  to  press  ; 
And  now  'tis  furrowed  deep,  and  now 

Made  smooth  with  hope  and  tenderness. 

For  something  of  a  formless  grace 
This  moulded  outline  plays  about; 

A  pitying  flame,  beyond  our  trace, 
Breathes  like  a  spirit,  in  and  out,  — 

The  love  that  cast  an  aureole 

Round  one  who,  longer  to  endure, 

Called  mirth  to  ease  his  ceaseless  dole, 
Yet  kept  his  nobler  purpose  sure. 

Lo,  as  I  gaze,  the  statured  man, 

Built  up  from  yon  large  hand,  appears  : 

A  type  that  Nature  wills  to  plan 
But  once  in  all  a  people's  years. 

[56] 


xV 


EDMUND    CLARENCE   STEDMAN 

What  better  than  this  voiceless  cast 
To  tell  of  such  a  one  as  he, 

Since  through  its  living  semblance  passed 
The  thought  that  bade  a  race  be  free? 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 
1883. 

By  special  permission  of 

Messrs,  Houghton,  Mifflin  £s"  C*. 


[57] 


THE    MEMORY   OF   LINCOLN 

ON   THE    LIFE-MASK    OF    ABRAHAM 
LINCOLN 

This  bronze  doth  keep  the  very  form  and  mold 
Of  our  great  martyr's  face.     Yes,  this  is  he  : 
That  brow  all  wisdom,  all  benignity  ; 
That  human,  humorous  mouth ;   those  cheeks  that 
hold 

Like  some  harsh  landscape  all  the  summer's  gold ; 
That  spirit  fit  for  sorrow,  as  the  sea 
For  storms  to  beat  on  ;  the  lone  agony 
Those  silent,  patient  lips  too  well  foretold. 

Yes,  this  is  he  who  ruled  a  world  of  men 
As  might  some  prophet  of  the  elder  day  — 
Brooding  above  the  tempest  and  the  fray 

With  deep-eyed  thought  and  more  than  mortal  ken. 
A  power  was  his  beyond  the  touch  of  art 
Or  armed  strength  —  his  pure  and  mighty  heart. 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 
1886. 

By  special  permission  of 
The  Century  Co. 


[58] 


RICHARD    WATSON    GILDER 

TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN 

(REUNION  AT  GETTYSBURG  TWENTY-FIVE  YEARS 
AFTER  THE  BATTLE) 

Shade  of  our  greatest,  O  look  down  to-day  ! 
Here  the  long,  dread  midsummer  battle  roared, 
And    brother    in    brother    plunged    the    accursed 

sword ;  — 
Here  foe  meets  foe  once  more  in  proud  array 

Yet  not  as  once  to  harry  and  to  slay 

But  to  strike  hands,  and  with  sublime  accord 
Weep  tears  heroic  for  the  souls  that  soared 
Quick  from  earth's  carnage  to  the  starry  way. 

Each  fought  for  what  he  deemed  the  people's  good, 
And  proved  his  bravery  with  his  offered  life, 
And  sealed  his  honor  with  his  outpoured  blood  •, 

But  the  Eternal  did  direct  the  strife, 

And  on  this  sacred  field  one  patriot  host 
Now  calls  thee  father,  —  dear,  majestic  ghost ! 

Richard  Watson  Gilder. 
1888. 


By  special  permission  of 
The  Century  Co. 


[59] 


THE   MEMORY   OF   LINCOLN 

LINCOLN 

Chained  by  stern  duty  to  the  rock  of  state, 
His  spirit  armed  in  mail  of  rugged  mirth, 
Ever  above,  though  ever  near  to  earth, 
Yet  felt  his  heart  the  cruel  tongues  that  sate 

Base  appetites,  and  foul  with  slander,  wait 
Till  the  keen  lightnings  bring  the  awful  hour 
When  wounds  and  suffering  shall  give  them  power. 
Most  was  he  like  to  Luther,  gay  and  great, 

Solemn  and  mirthful,  strong  of  heart  and  limb. 
Tender  and  simple  too ;  he  was  so  near 
To  all  things  human  that  he  cast  out  fear, 

And,  ever  simpler,  like  a  little  child, 

Lived  in  unconscious  nearness  unto  Him 
Who  always  on  earth's  little  ones  hath  smiled. 

S.  Weir  Mitchell. 
1891. 

By  special  permission  of 
The  Century  Co. 


[60] 


MAURICE   THOMPSON 

From 
LINCOLN'S    GRAVE 

(READ  BEFORE  THE  PHI  BETA  KAPPA  SOCIETY  OF 

HARVARD  UNIVERSITY) 

May  one  who  fought  in  honor  for  the  South 
Uncovered  stand  and  sing  by  Lincoln's  grave  ? 
Why,  if  I  shrunk  not  at  the  cannon's  mouth, 
Nor  swerved  one  inch  for  any  battle-wave, 
Should  I  now  tremble  in  this  quiet  close, 
Hearing  the  prairie  wind  go  lightly  by 
From  billowy  plains  of  grass  and  miles  of  corn, 

While  out  of  deep  repose 
The  great  sweet  spirit  lifts  itself  on  high 
And  broods  above  our  land  this  summer  morn  ? 


Meseems  I  feel  his  presence.      Is  he  dead  ? 

Death  is  a  word.      He  lives  and  grander  grows. 

At  Gettysburg  he  bows  his  bleeding  head  ; 

He  spreads  his  arms  where  Chickamauga  flows, 

As  if  to  clasp  old  soldiers  to  his  breast, 

Of  South  or  North  no  matter  which  they  be, 

Not  thinking  of  what  uniform  they  wore, 

His  heart  a  palimpsest, 
Record  on  record  of  humanity, 
Where  love  is  first  and  last  forevermore. 


THE    MEMORY    OF    LINCOLN 

He  was  the  Southern  mother  leaning  forth, 

At  dead  of  night  to  hear  the  cannon  roar, 

Beseeching  God  to  turn  the  cruel  North 

And  break  it  that  her  son  might  come  once  more ; 

He  was  New  England's  maiden  pale  and  pure, 

Whose  gallant  lover  fell  on  Shiloh's  plain  ; 

He  was  the  mangled  body  of  the  dead  ; 

He  writhing  did  endure 

Wounds  and  disfigurement  and  racking  pain, 
Gangrene  and  amputation,  all  things  dread. 

He  was  the  North,  the  South,  the  East,  the  West, 

The  thrall,  the  master,  all  of  us  in  one ; 

There  was  no  section  that  he  held  the  best ; 

His  love  shone  as  impartial  as  the  sun ; 

And  so  revenge  appealed  to  him  in  vain, 

He  smiled  at  it,  as  at  a  thing  forlorn, 

And  gently  put  it  from  him,  rose  and  stood 

A  moment's  space  in  pain, 
Remembering  the  prairies  and  the  corn 
And  the  glad  voices  of  the  field  and  wood. 

And  then  when  Peace  set  wing  upon  the  wind 
And  northward  flying  fanned  the  clouds  away, 
He  passed  as  martyrs  pass.      Ah,  who  shall  find 
The  chord  to  sound  the  pathos  of  that  day  ! 
Mid-April  blowing  sweet  across  the  land, 
New  bloom  of  freedom  opening  to  the  world, 
[62] 


MAURICE   THOMPSON 

Loud  paeans  of  the  homeward-looking  host, 

The  salutations  grand 

From  grimy  guns,  the  tattered  flags  upfurled ; 
And  he  must  sleep  to  all  the  glory  lost  ! 

Sleep  !  loss  !      But  there  is  neither  sleep  nor  loss, 

And  all  the  glory  mantles  him  about; 

Above  his  breast  the  precious  banners  cross, 

Does  he  not  hear  his  armies  tramp  and  shout  ? 

Oh,  every  kiss  of  mother,  wife  or  maid 

Dashed  on  the  grizzly  lip  of  veteran, 

Comes  forthright  to  that  calm  and  quiet  mouth, 

And  will  not  be  delayed, 
And  every  slave,  no  longer  slave  but  man, 
Sends  up  a  blessing  from  the  broken  South. 

He  is  not  dead,  France  knows  he  is  not  dead; 
He  stirs  strong  hearts  in  Spain  and  Germany, 
In  far  Siberian  mines  his  words  are  said, 
He  tells  the  English  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
He  calls  poor  serfs  about  him  in  the  night, 
And  whispers  of  a  power  that  laughs  at  kings, 
And  of  a  force  that  breaks  the  strongest  chain ; 

Old  tyranny  feels  his  might 
Tearing  away  its  deepest  fastenings, 
And  jewelled  sceptres  threaten  him  in  vain. 

Years  pass  away,  but  freedom  does  not  pass, 
Thrones  crumble,  but  man's  birthright  crumbles  not, 

[63] 


THE    MEMORY    OF   LINCOLN 

And,  like  the  wind  across  the  prairie  grass, 

A  whole  world's  aspirations  fan  this  spot 

With  ceaseless  panting  after  liberty, 

One  breath  of  which  would  make  dark  Russia  fair, 

And  blow  sweet  summer  through  the  exile's  cave, 

And  set  the  exile  free  ; 
For  which  I  pray,  here  in  the  open  air 
Of  Freedom's  morning-tide,  by  Lincoln's  grave. 

Maurice  Thompson 


[64] 


PAUL   LAURENCE   DUNBAR 

LINCOLN 

Hurt  was  the  Nation  with  a  mighty  wound, 

And  all  her  ways  were  filled  with  clam'rous  sound. 

Wailed  loud  the  South  with  unremitting  grief, 

And  wept  the  North  that  could  not  find  relief. 

Then  madness  joined  its  harshest  tone  to  strife  : 

A  minor  note  swelled  in  the  song  of  life 

Till,  stirring  with  the  love  that  filled  his  breast, 

But  still,  unflinching  at  the  Right's  behest 

Grave  Lincoln  came,  strong-handed,  from  afar, — 

The  mighty  Homer  of  the  lyre  of  war  ! 

'Twas  he  who  bade  the  raging  tempest  cease, 

Wrenched  from  his  strings  the  harmony  of  peace, 

Muted  the  strings  that  made  the  discord,  —  Wrong, 

And  gave  his  spirit  up  in  thund'rous  song. 

Oh,  mighty  Master  of  the  mighty  lyre  ! 

Earth  heard  and  trembled  at  thy  strains  of  fire  : 

Earth  learned  of  thee  what  Heav'n  already  knew, 

And  wrote  thee  down  among  her  treasured  few  ! 

Paul  Laurence  Dunbar 
1899. 


[65] 


Illllllllllllllll  ^ 

A    000  506  925  ""7 


